


That's What I Was Suggesting

by apliddell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, post-Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:25:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4852838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock finally figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

We’re on the stairs again. Fresh off a beautiful case. I was brilliant. There was chasing. John knocked someone down. We hung round Lestrade’s office for knuckle icing and celebratory Lagavulin. And now John and me are on the stairs again, both (I suspect) pretending a bit more alcohol in our systems than actually there is. John is on his back. I’m on my side, to his left. Facing him this time, so that I can look at him. I can smell him, too. Whiskey and perspiration and the wool of his jacket. And I know if I lean in a bit more, I’ll get the sweetish tang of his scalp because I dragged him out without a shower this morning, and he’s sweated out that shampoo scent. Keep licking my lips. I’m always thirstier to drink him in just after a case. Any time we’ve been brilliant together really, but usually that means cases.

  
A street lamp near the window casts enough orange-gold light on John’s face to set him aglow. There’s lamp light in his hair and his eyelashes; his pulse throbs at his throat, and I keep licking and licking my lips. John’s eyes are nearly shut, and he wears a faint smile. I know he is awake, but he looks to be dreaming pleasant dreams. Somehow that heightens the temptation of his bare skin. As if I might imbibe a little of that peace and pleasure at the touch. Brush my fingers against his where our hands lay side by side on the stairs. John’s eyes open, and his smile broadens the smallest bit. He does not withdraw his hand. I lick my lips.  


  
“Have I complimented you on that one yet?” John asks, his voice warm and soft from the whiskey.

  
I clear my throat, but my voice rasps a bit from disuse anyway. We have been on the stairs longer than I thought, “I suppose you must have. It’s your way.”

  
“It doesn’t count, if you can’t remember it. Let me think of a pretty one.”

  
That word ‘pretty’ teases something in my mind, “In your own time, John. I’m sure you know where to find me when you have anything in particular to relate.”

  
“Generous,” John says. And it may be my fancy that the pressure of his hand against my hand increases just a bit.

  
I have paused for too long, “Thank you.” Lick my lips. “Was that the pretty one?”

  
John hums in amusement, “Was it pretty enough for you?”

  
“Well. You know me. Modest and easily pleased.” John laughs harder than is strictly polite, but it sets a warm giddy swoop in my middle (I’ve pleased him!) and my fingers tingle where they touch his. I lick my lips.

  
“I do know you,” John says. “Nearly everything there is to know.” There is a wink in his voice. And on his face, perhaps. I don’t dare to lean in and look (could be imagining it).

  
“Nearly. I suppose you might have a tiny bit more investigating to do.”

  
John turns onto his side to face me, “Sherlock, can I ask you something?”

  
“You’ve asked me a great many things, John. I’d be disappointed if you gave it up now.”

  
John’s little grin turns into a giggle. “Arse,” he says fondly.

“I was wrong before, John.”

“Mmm?”

“That was definitely the pretty one.”

John laughs delightedly and reaches out to press my hand (!), then pushes himself to sitting, “Let’s go up, eh? I think I’ve had enough of the stairs.”

“All right.” Stand when he does and follow him up.

John makes right for the kitchen once we’re in the flat. I go into my room to change into my pyjamas, then take my chair, expecting him to put the kettle on. But he returns a moment later with a largish glass of whiskey in each hand and gives one to me. John sets his own glass on the mantel, toes off his shoes, and pulls his jumper over his head. His shirttail comes untucked (mouthwatering peek of his navel while his arms are extended), and I have an urge to rub it between my fingers (can almost feel it, just looking).  
He tosses the jumper onto the sofa and settles, glass in hand, into his chair with a little sigh, “Where were we?”

Sip from my glass and wait for him to follow suit, “You had a question.”

“Ah.” John sips again (I lick my lips). “Right. So I did.”

“I’m listening.”

John sets his glass on the side table and leans forward, “Sherlock. Ah. Mm. What were you, ah. What were you going to say? Erm. The day you were meant to leave again. You made a joke, but you were about to say something else. Do you remember?”

My face hots as he speaks. I hope my colour isn’t changing, “I do remember.”

John waits a moment for me to continue, then shrugs, “You don’t have to tell me. Only. I wondered. It seemed. Important.”

Swallow, “No, I. I want to tell you, only. I don’t know how to do it better than I have done before.” I’m sure I must be flushing now. I feel quite hot.

“Before?” John draws his chair a bit nearer. “You said you never had.”

“Well.” Sip my drink. Lick my lips, “I don’t know how to say it so that you’ll hear it. Properly.”

John leans in. His eyes are so soft, so bright. They dazzle me. “Could you. Do you think you might try again, Sherlock? I’m listening as hard as I can.”

“John, I.” Looking into his face, it wells up in me so huge that it’d be a struggle not to say it. I smile, “John. I love you. Most in the world.”

John beams, “You have said that before. Once.”

Try and ignore the little twist of disappointment in my stomach. I nod, “Yes, but. I don’t mean.” Swallow. My heart’s going too quick, “I don’t mean because you saved me. And I don’t mean that I admire you.” Quick quick quick quick.

John shifts forward and gazes at me for an eternity of moments, “You mean. You mean that you love me the way that I love you. Like that?”

Shut my eyes. Grip the arms of my chair because I know if I don’t, I’ll float away. I’m that light. “Yes, John,” my voice is very small. “Like that.” I open my eyes when I feel John’s knee press against mine.

He’s drawn his chair quite close, and he giggles when my eyes open, “Has it always been so. Easy?” Was that easy? I shrug. “I.” John inclines his head until his nose brushes mine, breathing sweet whiskey on my face, “Can I kiss you?”

I lick my lips, “Yes.”

John smiles a heartbreaking smile and cups my face (soft, delicate hands, softer than I remember), regarding me as if to memorise me. He dots kisses from my ear to my chin, excitement sparking in my gut every time our skin meets. John draws back to look at me again. “Mmm,” he murmurs, “I’ve made you blush.” He brushes those delicate fingertips along my jaw, my cheekbones, stoking me. I shut my eyes and raise my chin, and then John’s lips are on mine. Gentle, gentle, almost reverent. I shiver, and my eyes prick and spill. So flaying, these feather-touches. Under John’s attention, I am the softest little trembling thing that ever was.

When John draws back, his eyes are damp, “Oh Sherlock,” he strokes my cheek and shows me my own tears that have come away on his fingers, “Are you all right? Is this okay?”

I want him to kiss me until I dissolve. I want to be absorbed. I want to be the chemicals in his brain. The blood in his veins.  
I nod, “Kiss me.” He kisses me, clutches me. I may dissolve. I feel quite on the brink of it.

John draws back and squeezes the back of my neck, strokes my hair, shines joy onto my face until it dazzles to look at him. He licks his lips, “Ah. Sherlock. Would you like to ah. Go up. Go upstairs?” I stand up in answer, and John grins, “Right, okay. Good.” He takes my hand, and I follow him up to his bedroom, stroking my bottom lip. It’s tingling.  
John precedes me onto the bed, switches on the lamp on the bedside table, and stretches out on his back, his upturned face expectant and smiling. Sit on the edge of the bed and ease backward toward John, then lean back and rest my head next to his on the pillow (there is only one)(how spartan). John clasps my neck, toys with my hair. Feels heavenly.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I did not mean to say that (best I did, I suppose).

John nuzzles at my nose, “You seem all right to me,” he pulls a curl (oooh! will have to have that repeated). “You haven’t fallen off the bed yet.”

“I haven’t-” grit my teeth, sigh. “I. I’m not very.” Lower my voice, “I don’t want to bore you.”

John’s face clouds, “How could I ever possibly be bored of you?”

I shut my eyes, “Two hundred and forty three different types of tobacco ash.”

John kisses me, “I read that post, you know.”

Open my eyes, “Did you? You like me even when I’m dull?”

“Sherlock,” John kisses me again. “You are never dull. And I don’t like you. I love you.” He kisses my chin, “I didn’t bring you up here to make you juggle swords, you know.” I giggle (sounds ridiculous) and it sets John off, too. “I mean you don’t have to entertain me. Okay?” Nod hesitantly. John rubs the back of my neck with his thumb (heaven, heaven) and I sigh, “Sherlock,” John’s voice curls around me, so warm and soft like a thing I could stroke. I nod for him to continue, “All I want out of this is to look after you and make you feel good, okay?”

“You do,” I tell him.

John kisses me, strokes my hair, “We don’t have to work out everything we like tonight. Or tomorrow or the next day, even. Okay? We’ll take our time.” Nod, kiss him, stroke his chest. He smiles and shuts his eyes for a moment, “I’m going to get into my pyjamas, okay?”

Sit up and squeeze John’s pillow, “Are you going to sleep?”

John sits up as well and kisses my cheek, “In a bit. Aren’t you tired? I think I’m tired.”

Shrug, “I suppose. A bit.” Difficult to even notice that part of me with all this delight singing in my veins, “Would it be all right if I stayed with you tonight?”

John hugs me to him and kisses me, “Of course. I meant you to, if you would.” He slides off the bed as he speaks and gets pyjamas out of his dresser. John turns his back modestly when he undresses, and I glance away as he stoops to take his jeans off. Have seen him do that before (at the Cross Keys Inn where we shared a room when we went investigating for Henry Knight and little Kirsty Stapleton). Seems different now. I turn back the blankets and lie on my side on the left side of the bed (John will want the right, I believe)(night table on the right side of the bed, plus he lay to my right when we were on the stairs).

John gets into bed next to me and smiles, “Come a bit closer, if you like.” I slide nearer to him, and he puts his arm round me, and we sigh in unison. Lovely. I lay my head on John’s shoulder, and he wraps his other arm around my waist. I can feel the warmth of his skin through his soft t shirt and I can hear his heartbeat, and his hand has crept under my shirt to rub circles on the small of my back. I cannot recall ever having been so deeply content. I nuzzle in a bit closer (he smells wonderful, and I want to be saturated in him) and John’s arms tighten around me. His chest rises with his breath several (twelve) times before he speaks again, “Did you think about this? I used to think about this.”

“I did.” Kiss his chest, “Does it meet your expectations, John?”

John hums and kisses my hair, “You’re perfect. I always knew it.” I want to say something as handsome in return. Can’t. Swallow. Blink my eyes against the pricking in them and nuzzle John’s chest to hide my face. He strokes my back, kisses my hair, and my eyes spill over. Even that feels right (can’t hold back from him an instant longer)(don’t have to!). Drift away to sleep, rocked by the rise and fall of John’s breath under me and the rhythm of his hands on my skin.


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up smiling. Sherlock had stuck to me all through the night, and his head was pressed to my chin so that I had a noseful of his soft, lavender-smelling curls. There was a damp patch on my chest where he’d drooled on me a bit. Never thought I’d be pleased about being drooled on, but Sherlock’s got a way of surprising me. I worked my fingers into his hair to rub his scalp, and Sherlock woke with a small sigh and looked up at me with a smile.

I smiled back, “I’ve always wanted to do this.”

“Me too,” Sherlock curled a bit tighter round me, and I began to stroke his back with my free hand.

“Sleep all right?”  
“Mmm,” Sherlock nodded against my hand, but I’d a feeling it was just as much about increasing the friction of my hand in his hair as it was about answering the question, “Like a baby.”

I laughed, “Me too.” I rubbed his scalp a bit harder, and Sherlock hummed a deep, happy hum that I could feel in my own chest. “Like that, do you?” Sherlock smiled and nodded and arched his back so that he was pressed more closely against me. “Ha, you’re like a cat in a sunbeam.”

Sherlock opened one eye and managed to glare with it, “Flattering.”

I kissed him through a grin, “I love it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so relaxed.”

Sherlock pushed up a bit so that our faces were level and kissed me, “It’s the company. And the petting.” He paused and cocked his head as if considering, then sort of smirked, “Though I’m not sure ‘relaxed’ is exactly the word I’d have landed on myself.”

“How do you mean?” Sherlock’s little smirk grew. He rocked forward to bump his hips against my thigh, and I realised with a little jolt of excitement that he was hard. “Oh!” I wet my lips, “Can I touch you?”

“You are touching me, John,” Sherlock’s hand had crept into the gap between my t shirt and my pyjama bottoms to stroke my hip.

“Can I touch your cock?” Sherlock coloured faintly, nodded, pushed his face into my shoulder. It was the prettiest fucking thing I’d ever seen in my life. I stroked him through his trousers, and Sherlock muffled a sweet little moan against my neck. I could feel his hot breath and the shiver of his voice, and I loved it so much that it made me ache. I wanted to swathe myself in his moans and sighs and shivers. I wanted everything he could give me, “Sherlock?” I rubbed his hair, and he nodded. “I want to suck you. Would you like that?”

Sherlock made a little silent gasp that I felt on my throat and nodded again, “Yes, John.”

“Kiss me?” Sherlock brushed his soft, hot mouth against my neck and dotted his tongue on me before raising his face to kiss me on the lips. I rubbed the nape of his neck as I kissed him, and he pulled me closer with his hand on my hip, pressing his erection to me and rubbing it against mine. “Mmm Sherlock,” I drew back a bit. His eyes were bright and his cheeks and mouth were so pink, “You’re really fucking gorgeous, did you know that?” Sherlock shut his eyes and bit his lip. “You didn’t know that, Sherlock?” He shook his head. “You are. You’re so beautiful. I’ve always thought so. Right from the first time I saw you.” I kissed Sherlock’s chin and the corner of his mouth, since he still had his lip between his teeth. “I want to undress you before I suck your cock, Sherlock. Is that all right with you?”

Sherlock opened his eyes at that, “Yes. I. I want to see you, too.”

I smiled, “I can arrange that.” I pulled off my shirt, then my bottoms and shoved them off the bed.

Sherlock dragged his eyes over my body, and I could almost feel his gaze on me like a hand on my skin, “Can I touch you, John?”

“Of course you can, gorgeous.” I sank down onto my side next to him, and Sherlock put one hand on my chest and one on my hip. He pressed close to me and nosed my neck and throat, then nuzzled his face into my armpit. I squirmed a bit and giggled, “No tickling!”

“I’m not!” said Sherlock without removing his face, “I like the way you smell.”

“Like whiskey sweat.”

Sherlock nuzzled along to my chest, “Like John.” He inhaled deeply, his eyes shut.

It made me shiver, “Shall I undress you now, Sherlock?”

Sherlock kissed my chest and sat up, “Yes, John.”

I pulled Sherlock’s shirt over his head, and he leaned back and raised his hips so that I could tug off his trousers. We stared at each other for a long moment, then I pushed him down against the headboard and kissed him again. Mouthed at his soft lips, his chin, and along his jaw. Sherlock moaned and rolled his head back, so I nipped his lovely throat, too. Sucked the throb of his pulse and savoured the way he trembled against me, the way his pulse quickened under my mouth, the way he arched his back and caught at my hip. I trailed kisses down Sherlock’s chest and stomach, pausing to dip my tongue into his navel, so that his moaning was punctuated with a giggle.

“We,” Sherlock cleared his throat but the husk in his voice didn’t budge, “we agreed no tickling.”

I looked up at him grinning, “Sorry about that. I’m just finding my way around.”

Sherlock shimmied his hips and bumped my side with his leg, “You’re getting warmer.”

I laughed, “Keen! All right, I can take a hint.” I parted Sherlock’s knees and lowered myself onto my belly between them. His cock bobbed in front of him, hard, flushed richly, and shining at the tip with pre-come. It made my mouth water looking at it. Sherlock sighed when I took it in hand and let out the most beautiful groan when I licked the head,

“Christ. Do that again.”

“I was going to say the same to you,” Sherlock rasped.

“Mmm,” I kissed his thigh, up to the seam where his groin met his leg and sucked at his femoral pulse.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was sweet and pleading. He rocked his hips shallowly, “John, please!”

“All right, Sherlock,” I licked the head again, and Sherlock gasped through his nose. I began to stroke him with my hand, “Could you do something for me?” I looked up at him, waiting for an answer.

He had his eyes shut, his head still lolled back “Yes, John, what?”

“Come in my mouth?” I quickened my stroking and licked the head.

Sherlock whimpered, then raised his head and opened his eyes, “I’m trying.”

I laughed, “Right. I was taking a hint.” I took him in my mouth, and he gasped and dropped back against the headboard with a thump. I laughed through my mouthful of Sherlock’s cock, and he shivered so hard that I shivered a bit too. Sherlock’s sighs turned into sweet, quavering gasps as I established my rhythm. I quickened my pace, and he landed a hand heavily on my shoulder and dug his fingers into my flesh. I pulled almost entirely off to suck hard on the tip, and Sherlock groaned and thrust, then came with a little shout.

Without even wiping the dribble off my chin, I pushed up onto my knees and stroked my own cock. Sherlock watched me, his swollen mouth ajar, his eyes fixed on my cock in my hand. He reached out and slid one hand over my hip to squeeze my arse, and I jolted at his touch and came, grasping at his cocked leg when my knees suddenly went weak.

“Jesus,” I said after a moment, looking down at my come splashed over Sherlock’s belly. “Sorry about that. I suppose I should have asked permission first.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, “Ah no, it’s. Fine.” I burst into laughter as I sagged down onto the bed next to him, and Sherlock laughed too. My stomach was sore before I could manage to stop. I looked round for tissues, but the box on the night table was empty, so I leaned off the edge of the bed and grabbed my t shirt to mop him up. “I was rather hoping to taste that,” Sherlock said, watching me wipe away my come through eyes slitted in satisfaction.

I raised my eyebrows, “Really?”

“Of course,” Sherlock nudged me with his knee. “How could that possibly surprise you? You wanted to taste me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, well. It isn’t very nice cold. But don’t worry; you’ll have some fresher in a bit. I’ve got it on tap.” That set us off again, and Sherlock tugged me to him to hug me and laugh into my hair. I could feel the baritone thrum of his pleasure all down my spine. It pooled in my gut like something warm and nourishing. Sherlock held me tightly as our laughter subsided and stroked down my back.

He made a little hum that sounded as contented as I felt, “John, I adore you.”

I blinked hard, but it was no good. My tears ran down my nose onto Sherlock’s chest. I sniffled, “Quite right, too.” Sherlock hummed a little chuckle, but he must have understood me, because he held me even tighter and kissed and kissed my hair.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hungry?”

  
“Mmm?” I must have been asleep or deep in reverie, but John’s gentle voice brings me back to him.

“Are you hungry, Sherlock? I’m famished. And you need a wash.” John kisses my chest and drums his fingers on my hip.

“You’re throwing me out of bed is the long and short of it,” kiss his hair.

John smiles and shakes his head, “I’m getting out of bed and hoping you’ll come along with me. Mmm? Let me cook you breakfast?”

That does sound appealing. John’s breakfasts are very nice, though few and far between. But his bed is also warm and comfortable, despite the paltry number of pillows (I’ve three on my bed; perhaps I’ll bring up two)(here’s me making plans…). “Supposing we stayed here and went back to sleep.”

“We’ve got to get up some time,” John kisses my chest. “And I’m anxious to start feeding you up, mm? I take boyfriending very seriously.”

My stomach swoops, and I grin foolishly at that, “And I suppose it’s my reciprocal duty to allow you to?”

“It would be nice. But I reckon while we’re in the honeymoon phase, I won’t mind wheedling you into letting me pamper you.”

My grin broadens, “Honeymoon eh?”

“Mmhm but after that, it’s the iron fist for you, Sherlock.”

“Goodness. Show me a little iron fist? So that I know how to prepare for it.”

John laughs and brings his fist down lightly on my chest, “Sherlock Holmes, you get out of bed this minute and march your stubborn backside downstairs, so I can cook you your favourite breakfast.”

I laugh too and kiss his fist, “How intimidating.”

“You asked for it.” John pets at the hair on my chest.

“I’m sure I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. What’s my favourite breakfast?”

John scoffs, “Poached egg on brown toast. Too much butter. Titchy slice of tomato, if they’re in. Ketchup if not. Coffee, black, two sugars.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Ask me a hard one.”

I sit up and stretch, “Come and have a shower with me? That isn’t the hard one. I can think it up in the shower.”

John sits up as well and kisses my cheek through a smile, “All right then. Shower first, then breakfast.” John gets out of bed and after a bit of rummaging in his wardrobe, brings me his old green dressing gown and wraps me in it (still smells of him!). “And these,” he says, pulling a thick pair of socks out of his drawer and tossing them to me, “It’s always colder down there than you think it’s going to be.”

I put on the socks, “More boyfriending, John?”

“Mmyep, you’re falling behind.” John dons his newer blue striped dressing gown, laughing and nudging me away when I turn the collar up. “Yes, all right. You’re not the first person in the world to wear a blue dressing gown, you know.”

“First person in the flat,” I kiss his cheek, then on impulse, give his bum a little pinch (he leans into it)(mmm). “Anyway, it looks cooler that way. It does things for your cheekbones.”

John can’t swallow his grin, “Shut up.”

“Nope!” Open the bedroom door and hold it for him, “How’m I doing at the boyfriending now, John?” I ask as I follow him out and down the stairs, “Am I catching you up?”

“Mmm, by the time we’re out of the shower, I expect we’ll be neck and neck.”

 

…

 

“Good lord, John! No wonder the bathroom is always a mess of steam when you’ve finished with it. My hair will be a fright, you know. Curly hair needs cold water.”

John can’t help grinning at me, no matter what I say (honeymoon phase)(!) “So you’ll put a bit of product in it. Steam isn’t a mess. And it’s not that hot.”

“It’s hotter. I’ll be red as a lobster when I’ve come out of here. If I’ve any skin left at all.”

“Oh all right,” John fiddles with the taps and the water slowly becomes merely too hot, as opposed to hellishly hot, “You’ll be nice and loose when we come out, though. You’ll see.” He finds the cloth, lathers it up with some some of his bath wash (fresh evergreenish smell, juniper or something) and turns to me to rub sudsy circles on my chest. Warm foam drips down my belly, and I sigh (how does he make me feel so buoyant and so grounded at once? Seems like a contradiction). John smiles up at me, “You were thinking of a hard one.”

“Ah yes." Consider for a moment, "How does the sock index work?”

John adopts a silly posh voice, “The principle governance of a sock index is very simple, John. Pairs of socks are tied into crosses upon exiting the drying rack to prevent loss. Never rolled into balls, because it impairs long term elasticity. Properly cared for, a quality pair of socks can last years, you know. The pairs are then arranged first by dominant colour, then by length, then by occasion or material if you prefer.” He bounces his eyebrows at me.

“Impressive. Except that didn’t sound a bit like me.”

“Full marks, still. I’ve had the lecture often enough.”

“Lecture?! When have I ever lectured you about socks, John?”

John laughs, “Sunday before last when I asked you if you’d seen my brown merinos. I know you pinched them for that experiment in fiber decay, but it was sort of sweet to hear you bluster about sock organisation, as if you hadn’t been rumbled.”

“I don’t have to stand here and listen to these accusations! Anyway they were completely threadbare; I did you a favour.”

“You can do me the favour of buying me a new pair.” John laughs again and pats my shoulder, “Turn around. I’ll do your back.”

Turn obediently and shut my eyes to savour the deliciousness of the hot water and John’s soft hands on my wet skin, “Am I falling behind in boyfriending again, John?”

John kisses my shoulder blade, “Nah, love. You’re perfect.”

…

John shuts the fridge and turns to me with a little shrug, “No eggs, no butter, no milk.”

“I’ve had a look in the pantry and there isn’t any bread or porridge either. Plenty of ketchup, though.”

“We’ll have to go out, I suppose. I’m starving.”

“Oh,” I cock my head. “You don’t mind going out with me?”

John gives me a bemused look, “I’ve gone out for breakfast with you about a thousand times, Sherlock.”

“Ah.” I nod, “Right. I thought. Never mind. Ready when you are.”

“Oh Sherlock,” John takes my hand and kisses it, “I’m sorry. I know I haven’t made the erm. The best impression on you about. All that. But I am not ever going to treat you like a dirty secret, all right? I am really, really proud of you. Okay? Do you believe me?”

He looks at me with such steady, naked affection that for a moment, all I can do is nod. Clear my throat, “Yes, John. I believe you.”

“Good,” John leans up and kisses me, squeezes the back of my neck. “I love you.”

“Yes. I love you, John.” I’m rather annoyed with myself for the little giggle that falls out with the words.

John doesn’t seem to mind my giddiness. He kisses me again, his hand still clasping my neck, “All right, then. Let’s go and have our very first date.”


End file.
